My toes hang off a platform, over a canyon floor 50 feet below ... at least at this point. Later the drop is 300 feet. I'm wearing a helmet — which seems ridiculous — and strapped into a harness, hooked to a steel cable extending 501 feet from my platform to another straight ahead.

They expect me to willingly step off this platform.

They're insane.

They call this "recreation." They call this "fun." "They" include my wife, who's decked out in similar gear, watching me with the same look on her face as when one of our kids starts coughing after eating a tortilla chip exceeding the width of her throat. She's frozen, looking for the first signs of a heart attack.

This is ziplining — another one of those clever sports where surviving is the same as winning. People pay 90 bucks to step off a platform and hope they make it to the other side — with nothing under them except air and — far below — ground. This is more faith than I can muster. People much younger than me just took their turn. So did one man who may be twice my age. Two women who look like grandmas just went, hooting and hollering all the way across. This is silly. I can do this.

I can't do this.

I'm on the first stage of what's called the Catalina Zipline Eco Tour. I'm hooked onto what they call "The Appetizer." Apparently this is a little warmer-upper for the next one — a 1,045-foot zip our two guides call "Big Daddy." That's when things get serious.

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It gets better (worse)

From that platform we go back down the canyon, on what they call the "roller coaster." It's a steep, up-and-down line that travels 702 feet. Great. Because I love regular roller-coasters so much (no, I don't).

We shoot even further down the canyon on the fourth leg, an 892-foot zip through tree tops. The guides say on this one it's fun to yell like Tarzan. I'll probably scream like Jane.

The last leg on the journey is only 531 feet long, but has incredible bounce in the line, which they say is fun. Sounds like a good time to throw up. Then again, it probably will be fun, because I'll be that much closer to the end.

This might be a good time to mention I'm afraid of heights. I don't jump out of airplanes unless they're on fire, and I don't trust a bungee cord to save me from slamming face first into whatever's under a bridge. The only reason I do the Space Mountain ride is because it's too dark to see the bottom.

My man-ego and I signed a peace treaty long ago, with me successfully arguing that I've done plenty of things to qualify for membership in the Testosterone Club. Swimming with a shark ... check. Stealing a bulldozer ... check. Watching a woman give birth without drugs (either of us) ... check.

I already rescheduled the zip line once. Though we're on our third day on vacation on beautiful Catalina Island (try the swordfish), this has been hanging over me the entire time. On the ride up, I prayed for a forest fire to break out. I've never been so scared as I am right this very instant.

On the other hand, I can buy a cool shirt saying I ziplined when we're down.

I remember what the guide said: hold on, step out, lean back, and pull into a ball to get enough momentum to get across. That's key for people petrified of heights — don't get stuck halfway across, prompting some sort of rescue operation as well as the likelihood of getting sick and/or passing out. Finally, I'm sick of myself. I invoke my own version of the Nike slogan: Just go, stupid.